


that I’m not looking for nothing in nobody’s eyes is a lie

by flexible_flyer



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 10:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11229546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flexible_flyer/pseuds/flexible_flyer
Summary: Sinjir should not be on any welcoming committee, he should not be offering anyone guidance, and yet here they are.





	that I’m not looking for nothing in nobody’s eyes is a lie

**Author's Note:**

> So there were lots of really cool fics where Finn talks to Bodhi, and I thought it would be interesting to see him meet a different former Imperial. Thanks to my sweetheart for beta reading, despite not having read Aftermath, only listening to me complain about it at length.
> 
> Title is from the song "Consequences of Nonaction" by Why?

Sinjir loiters outside the medcenter, chain-smoking and waiting for someone to come yell at him. Kalonia’s been saying he should quit for decades now, and the scolding even took, for a while, before this new disaster. Starkiller. A whole system — gone. 

He always hated the architecture in Republic City. He used to complain whenever an opportunity came up, he used to create opportunities whenever he could. It’s all gone now. All of the brutally ugly new construction that housed the senate, all gone. Every hastily constructed buildings designed to look much older, destroyed. They tried to conjure up the Old Republic on a shoestring budget, and only created eyesores. The senate specialized in good ideas horribly executed.

There was a street vendor down the road from Mon’s offices that sold sausages of unclear origin, greasy and delicious, that paired perfectly with sips of whiskey from his flask. Of all the things in Republic City, of all the things in the Hosnian system, he’ll miss their spicy link wrap the most.

He lived there for a years, before he burned out on politics. He had a couple lovers there, relationships that ended badly, as his relationships tend to end. Good men. It never would have worked out. He didn’t stay in touch. They must be dead now.

His hands shake when they’re empty. He’s gone through four cartridges of smoke and doesn’t know the last time he was completely sober. And for some kriffing reason they’ve stuck him on the welcoming committee. He knows the Resistance is stretched thin right now, but _really?_

They want him to talk to the stormtrooper. _Talk_ to the stormtrooper, in a nice conversational way, not interrogate him, not take him apart with torture or the threat of it. His skills are unwanted.

They want him, a former Imperial, to talk to the stormtrooper, defector to defector, and reassure the kid that there’s a place for him in the New Republic. Never mind how Sinjir didn’t so much defect as wander off, never mind how the New Republic is drifting, leaderless, possibly falling apart. A place in the Resistance then, Sinjir supposes, though he hardly knows what he’s doing here.

Snap wrote him a few years back, asking if he was doing anything. He was dying of boredom on Coruscant. The Resistance sounded intriguing. He wasn’t about to start believing in something, not at his age, but the Resistance was more appealing than sitting around with his thumb up his ass.

He likes the work. He made his peace with that a long time ago, as much as peace was possible. There is a reason he drinks. He’s very good at what he does.

He isn’t very good at what they’re asking him to do today.

To talk to the stormtrooper — former stormtrooper, heroic former stormtrooper, who somehow overcame his conditioning to help the Dameron kid escape. _Former_ is a very important word in all of the reports Sinjir read. But he’s been a _former_ Imperial loyalty officer for thirty years now, and knows it isn’t that simple.

Normally they get Celchu to do these sort of things. Celchu is a model officer. He was for the Empire, for the Rebellion, for the New Republic, for the Resistance. A model officer, except for the time he got tried for treason, but that all got cleared up, and compared to Sinjir, most people look more respectable than they might otherwise. But he’s busy, doing important Admiral things, while Sinjir has too much free time. 

His main responsibility was helping Leia navigate the Resistance’s acrimonious relationship with the senate. One would think, that with the senate’s destruction he wouldn’t have much to do, but his datapad’s inbox is still filling up. There’s intelligence to be reviewed, contacts who think they deserve his attention. He’s had a hard time sitting down and working since Starkiller.

In the immediate aftermath he was able to keep busy, taking care of things that matter, but a week later things have slowed some, and they’ve all had to try to get back to the day to day activities of running a resistance. Sinjir is excellent under pressure, but often flounders in day to day activities. So he’s been drinking, and smoking, and making cutting remarks. All his usual coping mechanisms. 

He’s only received one message worth the time it took to read it. From Conder, in Hanna City. _I’m safe. Are you going to be sensible and talk now? Come home._ Just that, nothing else. He has yet to reply.

He’s much too busy, trying to tame a senate that doesn’t exist, and waiting to have a nice chat with their stormtrooper. He’s sure Kalonia’s keeping him waiting for a reason, not just to be cruel.

She finally steps outside, and neatly takes the smoke from between his fingers. She looks at it skeptically, then turns her glare on him.

He tries to look innocent, smiling a little, knowing it isn’t very effective.

“These things will kill you someday,” she says.

“I should be so lucky.” The idea of illness or age taking him instead of violence is a dream he stopped chasing a long time ago.

She cackles, and brings the smoke to her own lips and takes a long drag. She exhales gracefully through her nose. She grinds it out on the dirt under her heel instead of handing it back to him.

“You can see him now,” she says. “I think another visitor will do him good, and I guess you’ll have to do.”

“Hey.” Sinjir conjures up some mock offense, for the sake of making conversation.

“I’ve known you too long to say be gentle, but — try not to be a total asshole. He’s done a lot of good, and had a rough time of it. He deserves better than listening to you.”

Sinjir could make another joke here, but resists the impulse. “I know he does. And I know he’s talked to Leia, I know intelligence is going to have a lot to ask him.” This kid’s life is going to debriefing for the foreseeable future. “Maybe it’ll do him some good to meet a former Imperial who’s changed his spots, maybe not. I just want to get a sense of what he’s like.”

“If you do anything to upset him, I’ll enjoy throwing you out of my medcenter,” Kalonia says, and he knows she isn’t joking.

“As much as I hate to deprive you of that or any pleasure, I’ll try to be on my best behavior.”

She rolls her eyes, because she knows how little that means. “You have an hour. Finn needs to rest. If you can take Dameron with you, I’ll see if we can find you a medal.”

“I’ve always wanted a medal,” Sinjir lies. He follows her out of the humidity, and into the carefully temperature controlled medcenter. It’s the nicest building on base, with comforts Sinjir used to take for granted. The Empire never expected him to work in such conditions. It’s hard to imagine the senate being _less_ functional, but Sinjir expects they would have managed if asked to operate in this heat.

It’s a short walk down an air conditioned corridor to the right room. Kalonia leads the way, but leaves him to make his own introductions.

Poe Dameron’s sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs. Sinjir likes him. He flirts back, even though Sinjir knows he’s old now, and not as cute as he used to be. They have fun, and both enjoy how it horrifies Snap. (“You can’t flirt with people who are younger than me — that’s a rule now. Poe, you shouldn’t encourage him.”)

Sinjir was in the debriefing about Dameron’s interrogation at the hands of the First Order, and is impressed by how well the man is holding it together. Sinjir knows about the after effects that kind of torture can have. It seems like Dameron’s doing alright, considering. 

Sure, he’s unshaven, has dark shadows under his eyes, and reportedly has barely left Finn’s beside. He doesn’t look _good,_ but considering what he’s been through, being alive and mostly coherent is better than could be expected. 

The stormtrooper’s lying propped up in the bed. He can’t be twenty. He’s smiling. He’s handsome. Young people are exhausting. 

Sinjir is in no way qualified to have this conversation, but he’s very good at pretending, and that will have to do.

“Hello. My name is Sinjir Rath Velus, and a long time ago I used to be an Imperial loyalty officer. Some people thought it might be good for me to talk to you, since I know what it’s like to switch sides.” He doesn’t explain why the people who think this are probably wrong. He’s going to give it his best shot, force knows why. “There were lots of former Imperials in the Rebel forces, but we’re all getting old now, and there aren’t as many of us around anymore.”

“And not many people defect from the First Order,” Finn says, cutting straight to the point.

“No, they don’t. Which makes what you did very exceptional.”

Finn manages to beam and look bashful at the same time. It’s impressive.

Sinjir takes the other chair, and settles down to talk. He makes it clear that this isn’t anything official. “I’ll leave the debriefing to someone else, that’s all dreadfully boring. This is just a chat.”

So they chat.

Sinjir asks Finn what he thinks of the medcenter — Finn calls Kalonia nice, and Sinjir decides not to contradict him. 

“You have to admit, the food is horrible though,” Sinjir says.

Finn starts to shrug, but seems to realize halfway through that the movement irritates his wound. He can’t hide the pain on his face, and Poe doesn’t hide his concern.

“It isn’t so bad,” Finn says. “It’s a lot like what they fed us with the Order, but I get to decide how much I want to eat. And Poe’s squadron has been sneaking in treats from the mess.”

Sinjir laughs. 

Apparently Poe’s pilots have been around to visit, which is a good excuse to tell an embarrassing story about Snap as a teenager, not that Sinjir really needs an excuse.

Sometimes Finn doesn’t have the context to understand the context of a story, but Poe’s eager to explain, patiently laying out the details of how the New Republic fleet operated, and just how mortifying it would be for a young cadet to have a general stop by with a lunch packed by his mother. And of course, the humor of a home-programmed grooming droid malfunctioning in the middle of a haircut is universal. Thinking about Snap’s traditional Maloeen shaved sideburns still makes Sinjir smile. 

There’s lots of smiling, and lots of laughing. They can’t forget that an entire system was destroyed, including the seat of government. Finn is still lying in a hospital bed. Poe was still tortured. Sinjir is still his usual mess. But they can still smile and laugh for a while. 

Finn is a nice young man. Sinjir has always has a hard time believing such a thing exists, but that’s what Finn is, somehow. Despite the First Order conditioning, despite the upheaval of the past few weeks, despite the still-healing wound on his back, Finn is a nice young man, and they have a nice chat.

Finn deserved a better beginning than what life gave him. It isn’t fair.

Sinjir may have deserted the Empire, but before that, he signed up. He may have had a rotten childhood, but he had a childhood. He was able to grow up, become his own man, and make his own mistakes.

There were times in Sinjir’s past where he was happy, or at least content. The first years with Conder shine particularly bright in his memory. They were good together, and it felt like he was doing good work advising Mon Mothma in the senate. It didn’t last long. 

He got frustrated with the senate, which he tried to fix by drinking, which didn’t work, but did make Conder frustrated with his drinking. He tried to hide from all their problems in work, which only made him more frustrated with the senate, which made him drink more. Conder eventually got so sick of it that he left, back to Hanna City and the possibility of finding someone who deserved him. Sinjir’s life just got worse from there, all because of terrible decisions he made.

If anyone asked why he’s a part of the Resistance, he’d spout some bullshit non-answer until they went away. The real reason is that he believes everyone deserves the opportunity to have their own mistakes standing between them and happiness. People should be unhappy because they’re fucking their own lives up, not because of galactic politics. Many will still be miserable, because sentient beings tend to do a bad job looking after themselves, but in a just world they would suffer from their own choices and little else.

The First Order’s stormtrooper program robs all choice from its victims. It turns children into mindless tools of tyranny. It’s one of the worst horrors Sinjir’s seen in his life, and he has seen many, committed more than a few. Somehow, despite all that conditioning, Finn is the nice young man Sinjir’s chatting with. 

He’s sure they could go on chatting nicely all day, but he glances at the comlink on his wrist, and they’re getting close to Kalonia’s time limit.

“It truly has been a delight to meet you Finn, but I should be getting back to work.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Finn says, and Sinjir is touched and baffled by the sincerity.

“Dameron, I could use a few minutes, if Finn can spare you,” Sinjir says, hoping he’ll be able to come up with a suitable reason why by the time they get outside.

Poe starts to protest — it’s clear he doesn’t want to let the younger man out of his sight — but Finn cuts him off. “Go do your job. Bee-bee can watch me nap for a while.”

Poe sighs, but stands. “I won’t be long, buddy. Tell Bee-bee if you need anything, they’ll get one of the nurses.”

The two of them are very cute. Sinjir fights not to roll his eyes. He supposes he can give them a moment. “Poe, I'll be in the hall. Whenever you can tear yourself away.” 

Eventually, Poe does follow Sinjir out of the medcenter, and into the heat of the jungle. Sinjir leads him away from the base, down one of the winding paths through the trees, half-stalling, half-searching for somewhere to have a quiet conversation. 

After Conder left, Sinjir did everything he could to make his life more of an abyss than it already was. He worked, and drank, and ate terrible. He gave bad advice, contrary for the sake of contrarianism, not properly evaluating a given problem, unable to hold the variables in his head. For a while he managed to coast along on gut reactions and experience. Eventually, there was an ultimatum: quit drinking or lose his job. 

Amazingly, Sinjir did not chose drinking. He still isn’t sure how that happened, but he’s grateful. 

Getting sober didn’t make him happy all of the sudden, but it put him back in control of his life, to a degree. There were dark nights. There were slips. But for the most part, sobriety worked. He had almost five years. And then a week and a half ago, Starkiller happened, and he’s been drinking ever since.

He knows he can’t keep it up forever. Logistically, he’ll run out of spirits soon enough. He’s been going through bottles taken from the quarters of colleagues who won’t be coming back. He should probably feel worse about stealing from the dead, but mostly he has felt numb, thanks to the pilfered anesthesia. That’s a finite resource though, and he’s too old to be drinking the pilot’s homebrew.

He knows this is bad for him. He knows it won’t keep working. He knows he has to mourn the friends, acquaintances, rivals, and enemies that died in the Hosnian System, a list too long to begin compiling. He keeps on remembering more things that are gone — the sketchy theater he’d go to in the middle of the day when work got to be too much, drinking in the back row, one time meeting Conder for a rendezvous that never went further than kissing, because Conder’s always had much more sense than him.

He will have to face all that soberly, and continue the life he’s lucky to have. But not quite yet. He’s only halfway through the truly appalling bottle of sherry that had been hiding in Korrie’s socks.

He finally reaches a clearing he likes the look of, with a toppled down log that will make a fine bench, and not make him feel particularly decrepit when he tries to get back up. He sits down, and pats the space next to him for Poe, who reluctantly joins him. Sinjir can tell he still isn’t happy about having to leave the medcenter, but the break is probably good for him. A stiff drink might help too, or at least it’s worth trying. 

Sinjir used to own a very nice flask, but he’s been making do with a dented aluminum thermos that looks like it’s been carted through various military installations since before the Empire fell. He unscrews the top, which does double duty as a cup, and pours a few fingers. He hands it to Poe, who seems skeptical.

Poe takes a drink, and grimaces. “This is horrible.”

“I know. Sharing it with you will help me get through it faster.”

Poe takes another drink. Good boy.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Poe asks.

“Oh, nothing. Kalonia just wanted you to leave the medbay for a while.” Very occasionally, honestly looks like the best option.

Poe starts to stand up.

“Sit down,” Sinjir says, putting the slightest touch of durasteel in his voice. People used to listen to him. Never because of what he said though, because of what he did to them.

“You wouldn’t leave an old man to drink alone, would you?” Sinjir asks, hoping Poe doesn’t know drinking alone is one of his favorite hobbies.

Poe sits.

“Good. We’re going to sit, and talk. You’re going to have a drink with me, and get some fresh air. Doctor’s orders — well, the leaving medbay, not the drinking. That’s just a bonus.”

“I guess it is nice out here,” Poe says. 

“Very green,” Sinjir agrees. He sort of hates that actually. He understands why they can't have a secret base somewhere civilized, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He likes nature to be neatly contained in parks and boulevards, where he can look at it, but it won’t get in his way. 

The public gardens in Republic City were all overrun with ugly yellow flowers that made him sneeze. Apparently this flower held some kind of historical significance to the Hosnian people, and it was very bad politics for him to tell a reporter looked like a Hutt’s used handkerchief and smelled as bad. Somehow that comment created an uproar that lasted three news cycles and merited an official apology.

When late into the second night of stories, after making his painful amends on holonews, Sinjir said that the entire senate and senatorial news apparatus could go die in a fire, this is not what he meant.

He remembers how serene Mon was through the whole flower fiasco. He complained, and she sat there, radiating reason and tranquility. She didn’t _say anything_ , but he could tell she found it funny. 

He misses her. That, at least, is not a new loss. He has had time to get comfortable missing her — even before she passed, there was a long illness. It was hard to watch her fade, but he was able to prepare for the loss of one of the first and only people to believe in him.

She might know what to say now. All he can conjure is nostalgia, useless memories of times and places that are gone. She would tell him to stop living in the past, and start planning for the future. And he will, when the liquor runs out. But for now he will continue to wallow.

“Your parents were at Endor, right?” He asks. 

Poe nods. 

“I deserted at Endor,” He say. “I didn’t join the Rebellion then, although I suppose I could have. I deserted and crashed their party. It sounds like your parents were nice people, they might’ve shared a drink with me, who knows. I don’t remember much of the night clearly. I got very drunk with the rebels on Endor, and then wandered off from the whole conflict, and didn’t do anything useful until much later.”

Sinjir doesn’t say anything about how he got off Endor. There are some things he’s still ashamed of, so many years later. There are other ways to steal someone’s clothes, ways that leave them alive, even ways that leave them sated and tired. He chose the way of Imperial loyalty officer — violent and efficient. He didn’t really know how to be anything else back then.

He’d like to blame it on his upbringing — that the Empire made him into the man he was, and it wasn’t his fault it took so long to become anything else. But then there’s Finn, who had been subjected to much more serious brainwashing, and still turned out alright. Which means he should probably consider his Imperial past as more of his own mistakes. It’s a long list any way you look at it.

He’s tried to make amends. He’s still trying. One day at a time.

“It’s good what you’re doing, looking after Finn,” Sinjir says.

“Yeah, he’s great,” Poe says, sounding so starry eyed.

There’s something there — Sinjir isn’t so old that he doesn’t recognize infatuation that could lead towards more. It seems like Finn smiles at everyone, but the way he smiles at Poe is — something more.

“It’s important to have people,” Sinjir says. This is one of those things that he knows to be true, but isn’t very good at remembering.

By all appearances, Poe is pretty good at having people. He grew up with a family, knows how to make friends, is well liked around the base. He can’t remember what it was, but he knows he had a good reason for reading Poe’s file. He’s had good reasons to read a lot of people’s files.  
Sinjir’s never thought of it as gossip, but valuable intelligence, and the years he spent around the senate only reaffirmed that. 

“When I left the Empire I floundered for a long time. It wasn’t until I found people to care about that things started to fall together.” He doesn’t know where his life would have gone if he hadn’t met Jas, and if she hadn’t put up with him, but drinking himself to death in Akiva’s damp gloom sounds like the most likely possibility. “I suspect Finn will do much better, especially with your help.”

“The General has been great about it all too,” Poe says, with the voice of a true believer. “She’s let me take time off rotation to sit with him, and she’s stopped by to talk to him, and has just been awesome.”

“I’m sure she has been wonderfully accommodating,” Sinjir says kindly. He doesn’t say anything about how Leia wants Poe off rotation until they’re sure he’s got his head screwed on right after being captured. He doesn’t say anything about the intelligence team that’s going to want a long talk with Finn before he’s allowed to see the rest of the base out of medical. 

Leia is good to her people, but she’s cautious too. Sometimes younger members of the Resistance build up the icon of their benevolent general and lose sight of the woman making practical decisions. Poe isn’t as bad as some, but he still has stars in his eyes when he talks about her. That’s why it’s important to have oldtimers like him around too, because Leia likes people who talk back and aren’t afraid to call her by her first name.

The Resistance is full of people who would die for Leia, but it could probably use a few more people who would tell her if they think she’s making a mistake. Sinjir is proud that he’d do both. He’s versatile.

“You’ll make sure he knows the Resistance isn’t his only choice, right?” Sinjir asks. “Do you know that the Resistance isn’t his only choice?”

Poe stares at him blankly, which is about what Sinjir expected.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great cause, I believe in what we’re doing, but Finn deserves to have options. Don’t you think that he deserves a chance at a normal life if he wants it, instead of all this?”

“Yeah… But. Like, what would that even mean?” Poe asks.

Sinjir shrugs. He never had one. “Quieter probably. Contentment and boredom. Folding laundry and complaining about the weather.”

Poe shakes his head like the whole thing is unimaginable. 

It’s so sad, Sinjir laughs. “I guess I don’t even know what I mean, but you need to make sure he knows he has options. If he doesn’t want to fight, there’s still a place for him here, and if he doesn’t want to be here, we could figure something out.”

Sinjir doesn’t actually know if they could — he’s sure there are security concerns, never mind how they might all be dead in a week. But he could _make_ something work, he’d fight for it. 

Poe is looking at him oddly. Sinjir shrugs and takes another drink. What does he know?

The problem with drinking — one of the _many_ problems with drinking — is that it makes him maudlin, and worse, philosophical.

Sinjir knew Korrie when she was a slip of a girl running private memos back and for between Mon and Leia’s offices. When he met Snap, the boy’s only friend was a deranged battle droid. Now Korrie’s dead. Snap could be too — he’s off scouting for a new base, and something could have happened, and the news hasn’t made it back yet. Force forbid, but it’s a dangerous galaxy, anything is possible.

When Snap was sixteen he fought in the battle of Jakku, the last big battle of the last war. He spent the whole next year attempting to grow the most abysmal mustache imaginable, because he was seventeen and thought he was real hot shit. Sinjir didn’t say anything, because he thought it was funny, and knew Snap wouldn’t listen to him. Besides, didn’t Snap deserve to do something young and stupid?

He was seventeen, and a veteran of Jakku, of the liberation of Kashyyyk, of the rioting on Akiva. He grew up fast after Norra left, even faster after she came back. Having a terrible teenaged mustache must have been among the most normal thing he’d done in years.

When Snap finally shaved it off, Sinjir asked why, hoping to hear that the boy had learned some sense. What he got instead was a sad story about how apparently it reminded Antilles of someone who died, which Snap didn't want to do. 

Sinjir didn't have it in him to tell Snap that almost everything reminded him of someone who'd died, or something terrible that had happened, or something terrible he had done. And if it was like that for him, it would only be worse for Antilles, who had actual friends to lose. One less absurd mustache wouldn't stop the reminders.

Poe isn't young or new. He probably isn't as cynical as Sinjir, or as broody as Wedge “all my friends are dead” Antilles, but he's been through enough. There’s a story in Poe’s file, about a lover who died as part of the last mission Poe flew before joining the Resistance. 

It's easy to forget, but Poe and Snap and so many others are defectors too. It's just that they left the good guys for the even better guys. They were never the enemy. 

Sinjir knows about being the enemy. And he knows something about deciding what to be next. Maybe not enough to be helpful, but he did stumble along until he became something else, something better. 

Maybe the idea of a “normal life,” is nonsense, especially now, in the middle of a war, especially for someone like Finn, who is already in the fight. Normal bits and pieces then, that might be the best they can manage. 

He hopes that Finn, starting his life fresh with an opportunity to make his own choices, gets the joy of small ordinary things. He hopes Poe, son of the rebellion, the general's favorite, gets the joy of small ordinary things. He hopes that maybe, they can bring each other small ordinary joys, if that's the path they chose. 

He wishes there was some way he could say all that, without sounding sentimental and hating himself more than usual. He can’t imagine why Poe would want to listen to him. He can’t comprehend himself as an elder, a guide, someone who’s actually learned from his mistakes and can pass those lessons along to the next generation. He might have, he might be, but it contradicts every aspect of his self image.

He’s better off just telling the plain truth, which feels very unusual. He isn’t sure if that will be helpful, but it’s the best he has to offer at the moment.

“So I’m giving myself, like, three more days to be a total fucking mess. Three more days — two and a half now really, and then I’ll stop drinking, and get back to all my old senate contacts who are still alive, and reply to the message from my ex where I dramatically confess I still love him, even though I’m sure he knows that, and that doesn’t change all the reasons why we don’t work.”

“Good for you?” Poe asks.

“Yeah, it will be,” Sinjir says. He’s really looking forward to it. Almost enough to pass up the next two and a half days of feeling sorry for himself and refusing to solve any problems. Almost, but not quite. He won’t get another opportunity to be fucked up like this until the next grand disaster, which hopefully is a long way off, if it ever comes, and hopefully he’ll have better coping methods by then, instead of taking refuge into something he knows does not work.

“You should make better choices than me,” Sinjir says, which may be a non sequitur, but is true. “You should take care of Finn, and take care of yourself, and not have a drinking problem, and have something wise to pass along to the kids in the next war.”

“You think there’s going to be a next war?” Poe asks.

Sinjir shrugs. “I hope not, but you look at galactic history and it seems probable.”

Poe takes a big swig of the terrible sherry. “Force, that’s a depressing thought.”

“I’ve never been known as an inspirational speaker,” Sinjir says. An understatement. “Although, you could say I’m an optimist — claiming that there will be a _next_ war, with the implication that this one will end, we won’t have all blown each other up by then, there will still be something worth fighting over.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“And even if there isn’t another war anytime soon after this one ends, people still make terrible choices and ruin things.”

“So why do we keep going then?” Poe asks. What an enormous question. It sounds rhetorical, but Poe’s staring at him, looking lost.

Sinjir sighs. He doesn’t think his best answer is all that good, but it’s _probably_ better than nothing. “I guess it’s all the little things. The choices that seem small, but still feel good to make. All the normal boring shit that’s easy to take for granted unless it disappears.”

“Yeah, I knew that. Just making sure you did too,” Poe says. He’s smiling bright, and there’s a glimmer in his eye that’s been mostly missing since he escaped the Finalizer. 

“Cheeky boy.” 

Poe will be fine, more or less, eventually. Even Sinjir has managed, Poe will be fine.

Sinjir glances at the time on his comlink. “It’s been long enough that Kalonia will probably let you back in the medcenter. You’ve gotten enough sun and fresh air to get through another day.”

“You heading back in?” Poe asks.

“Think I’ll stay and finish my drink.” It’s nicer out here than in his stuffy quarters, no one around to talk about the state of the galaxy or remind him of something he should be doing but doesn’t want to attempt for another two and a half days.

“You mind if I stick around? Maybe build up some goodwill with the doc by staying out of her hair for a while longer?”

“Sure, if you think that would work.”

“Probably not, but you never know,” Poe says. “Plus, I wouldn’t want to leave you to drink alone.”


End file.
